


A Beat-Up Cup for Fillin'

by RememberingEmbers



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff with Angst, M/M, Wedding Planning, characters will be tagged as they appear, endgame yuuri/victor, groomzilla phichit, not angst with fluff, that's important
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-01 02:50:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11477061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RememberingEmbers/pseuds/RememberingEmbers
Summary: As Victor and Phichit prepare for marriage, Victor finds himself falling for his groom's best-friend-turned-wedding-planner. Endgame Victuuri.





	1. Prologue: Lanterns and Lace

It's a six-carat heart-cut diamond in an emerald-inlaid rose gold setting. It was three hundred and ninety thousand dollars, and it's currently bedded in a spicy caramel and saffron-infused sundae in the kitchen freezer.

Victor forks a tiny bite of cavatelli into his mouth, hand shaking. His stomach is in knots. Phichit, oblivious to his distress, is fawning over Yuri with an Yves Saint Laurent eyeshadow palette and a tube of liquid eyeliner, his entire makeup collection spread out across the silver lace table runner. "Victor never told me he had such a gorgeous brother," he's gushing, carefully stroking Yuri's lashes with the tip of a mascara wand. "Gosh, you are a perfect doll. I can't believe he's been hiding you from me for so long!" 

"Yeah, you're actually all right," says Yuri. "I was just waiting for you to fuck up and talk with your mouth full or pick your teeth or double-dip in the fucking fondue, but you're okay, I guess."

"Thank you!" Phichit says, beaming.

He’s more than okay, thinks Victor, heart pounding in his chest. He is the single most radiant person Victor has ever known. They’d met in a coffee shop just eight months before, reaching for the same drink carrier—"Sometimes I can fit two between my legs and sometimes I can’t," Phichit had said, before breaking into a spectacular flush—and every day since then has been aflame with excitement and hope and sexuality. Victor has never felt younger, livelier. Phichit is a streak of constant motion; hiking, ice-skating, dancing gorgeously to Beyoncé in the cages at Club Vinyl. He’s a sun, and Victor is trapped in his orbit; a happy captive.

In a quiet, dark place inside him, Victor knows he isn’t going to be able to keep up with him forever. He’s eight years older than Phichit, and Phichit is extraordinarily lively, sinuous and sprightly and full of endless, bouncing energy. He’s already having trouble keeping up in the bedroom. He doesn’t want to hold Phichit back, but the beauty of him, his spirit—if, by some miracle, he would take Victor as his husband—

"Yo, Victor," says Yuri, kicking him under the table. Phichit’s done a purple smoky eye on him; his gaze is bright, piercing. "Don’t you think it’s time for dessert?"

There it is: his baby brother’s stamp of approval. The evening’s final hurdle. Victor nods, throat tight with trepidation, and slowly reaches for the dessert menu.

"Oh, no dessert for me, thanks," says Phichit cheerily, beginning to pack up his makeup.

Victor blinks. "Nothing at all?"

"I'm super full."

"But—don't you always order the ice cream here?"

"Yes, but I'm full."

"It's your favorite."

Phichit's voice takes on a tiny edge of frustration. "I'm full, Victor." 

Yuri snorts into his glass of lemonade. 

"Well, didn't you want dessert, Yuri?" Victor tries.

"Nope," says Yuri.

Victor glares at his brother, starting to get a little panicked. "Well, I'm going to get some ice cream," he says, flagging down the waiter, who gives him a conspiratorial wink. "The saffron sundae, please."

"You hate saffron," Phichit says.

"I have a craving."

Phichit eyes him suspiciously, but sighs and settles back in his chair, swiping his finger in a little leftover sauce on Victor's plate and pressing it between his smooth, pretty lips. "I ate so much today," he laments. "For breakfast, I had an Eggo and a fruit smoothie and a Fruit Roll-Up, then I had the rest of that pasta from yesterday for lunch, _then_ I had some Skittles and trail mix and then some Skittles _with_ trail mix, which was a mistake; you shouldn't mess with a classic, but after I had a granola bar—"

"Jesus fuck," Yuri mutters.

"—with three slices of pizza. But it was thin crust," Phichit continues, as the waiter brings out the sundae a little too quickly to not be suspect. "And then I forgot about tonight and ate half a sandwich with the rye bread I like at like four 'o clock or something. Oh, for crying out loud—"

The waiter places the dessert in front of him, not Victor, and Phichit eyes it with reluctant interest.

"Are you really going to eat it all?" he asks.

"Have at it," says Victor eagerly, pushing a spoon toward him. Having already seen and liked each one of Phichit's meals on his Instagram (tonight's tilefish, turnips, and littleneck clams have something like six hundred likes), he knows that it was a light day for Phichit, who has a hollow leg and eats like a horse, if horses—ate more.

The ring is nestled in the square of shortbread that accompanies the ice cream. Victor stares at it eagerly as Phichit, elegant in his table manners despite his voracity, eats in his cute little knife-and-spoon way, still chattering about his day. He breaks off to push the dish toward Yuri. "Do you want some of this?"

"No thanks," says Yuri. "I'm, uh—allergic to dessert."

Phichit frowns. "All dessert?"

"Just the—sweet ones."

"How strange," says Phichit. "I think I would just curl up and die. Sweetheart, have some ice cream."

"You have what you want first," Victor urges. He really does hate saffron.

Phichit bisects the chunk of shortbread. Then—nothing. Victor frowns. Where's the ring? He studies the remaining half of biscuit in its petite crystal ramekin—and realizes with horror that Phichit somehow managed to get the whole ring in one scoop without hitting it with the spoon. Victor can see the gigantic diamond sticking out of its side as Phichit lifts it to his mouth.

"Wait!" Victor yelps.

Too late. Phichit puts the bite in his mouth, chokes, and coughs the ring clear across the dining hall.

*

It takes them twenty-seven minutes to find the ring, but Phichit finds the little flake of his cracked molar first, and stares at it petulantly as Victor crawls around the room on his hands and knees. Yuri laughs the whole time, tears streaming down his face, and it's a mark of Phichit's makeup's quality that nothing runs. By the time Victor fishes the ring out from beneath one of the silver pastry carts, the #shinebrightlikeachippedtooth hashtag has blown up, and Phichit is two-hundred percent done with the evening. He's already got his coat on. His expression is decidedly unimpressed.

At least, until Victor gets down on one knee.

"Wait," Phichit says breathlessly. "This—this is an _engagement_ ring!" 

"Yes," says Victor, baffled. "What on earth did you think it was?"

"I thought it was just random I-Love-You ice," he says, barely audible over a fresh roar of Yuri's laughter. He cups one hand to Victor's cheek, tears brimming in his eyes, and stares down at the ring. It's still covered with shortcake crumbs and spittle, and he takes it from Victor, demurely sucks it clean, and hands it back. "Okay, go."

"P-Phichit Chulanont," says Victor, struggling to remember his speech. "I know we've only known each other for eight months, but—"

"Fuck it," says Phichit, seizing Victor's tie and crushing their mouths together.

Victor feels something crack.

"Did I just—?" Phichit says, pulling back in terror, and Victor reaches into his mouth and pulls out a little chip of tooth. He stares at it numbly, tonguing at his jagged canine—and grins.

There is no one he would rather spend the rest of his life with. There is never a dull moment with Phichit Chulanont, who is incandescent, unpredictable, dynamic, and impassioned. He starts laughing, and after a moment, Phichit joins him. They kiss again, more carefully, and Victor slips the humongous, abused diamond onto Phichit's finger. Phichit raises his hand to the light, beaming, and snaps two quick close-ups and one perfectly-framed selfie with Victor.

"I could've taken that, you know," Yuri grouses.

"No, it's gotta be a selfie," Phichit says, starting to sniffle. "Hashtag he-liked-it! Hashtag he-put-a-ring-on-it!"

Yuri rolls his eyes—but not without some grudging affection.

*

The wedding is in three months.

To absolutely no one's surprise, Phichit is a groomzilla: his ideas are elaborate and time-consuming, and they have to be executed _perfectly_ , or else the world is going to come to an end and return to nature. He spends eight long days crafting hundreds of paper roses out of the pages of secondhand books before deciding they're tacky. Torches them all in a fire pit, his eyes grim and satisfied behind a pair of purple aviators as he smokes a rare cigarette, and Victor decides to never piss Phichit off. Ever.

Christophe's enviable garden is a magical venue: the asters and hurricane lilies will be in bloom, cool blue-purple in the summer evening, setting off their colors of silver and celadon. Before the third wedding planner rage-quit, she helped them theme the ceremony: Lanterns and Lace. They decided to keep it even after she heaved her shoes at them and bolted, telling them exactly where they could shove their silver-plated cake-servers.

"You can be the lace," Phichit had said, unruffled. "Elegant, soft, intricate—"

"Full of holes," Victor joked back. "Prone to yellowing." Because there's no question that Phichit is the lantern, luminous and steel-edged and sublime. He'd kissed Phichit then, and his mouth was shimmery and nourishing, like a spoonful of honey.

But now they're thirteen weeks away from the big day, and they've got no planner, no officiant, no venue for the reception. Victor is becoming concerned, and Phichit is near hysterics. He wakes Victor up daily by tearfully shouting, "Don't panic!" at him as he lies in bed. The dining room is full of mason jars and dying succulents. The RSVPs are coming back, and between Victor's magnate father and Phichit's—Phichitness, it's looking like they're going to have a guest list of roughly three hundred and seventy. Phichit starts crying when he attempts to make the seating chart. "We don't have enough tables," he sobs to Victor. "I hate tables! Tables should be illegal!"

This won't do. Victor massages his shoulders, laying a firm kiss on his temple. "What do you need?" he asks soothingly. "What will make this process easier for you?"

He expects an answer like 'freesias' or 'tea lights' or 'more _fucking_ tables,' but what Phichit says instead is, "Yuuri."

"My brother?"

"No, Katsuki Yuuri, my best man," Phichit affirms, nodding firmly through his tears. "I need my Yuuri."

So that's how Victor ends up at Denver International Airport at 4AM, waiting for 'a supple Japanese boy in huge glasses who looks simultaneously magnificent and terrified.' Phichit was going to come with him, of course, but he'd finally fallen asleep on the couch after thirty-two hours of gluing fake strands of pearls to burlap ribbons, and Victor hadn't had the heart to wake him. _How supple is 'supple?'_ Victor is thinking, after three waves of disembarking passengers and no Yuuri. He sips his coffee, pensive. _How magnificent and terrified is 'magnificent and—'_

"Victor?" asks a small, terrified voice.

Victor turns.

The young man in front of him is a little shorter than him, a little stouter—and 'magnificent' doesn't begin to do him justice. His eyes, dark and focused and intelligent, are framed by long, straight lashes. His lips are incredibly pink. Best of all, he seems to have forgotten that he's still got a gigantic fluffy poodle neck pillow perched on his shoulders, which only calls attention to his long, pretty throat. Victor stares with his mouth open. All words seemed to have abandoned him.

"Aah, sorry, I thought you were someone else," Yuuri says, quickly turning away.

"Wait. Yuuri?" Victor catches his wrist in one gloved hand, holding long and tight enough that the contact sizzles a little when it shouldn't. He lets go. "Sorry, that's me—I'm Victor Nikiforov. Phichit's fiancé."

"Oh!" says Yuuri breathlessly. "Oh, Victor, I—I don't usually do this, but—"

And then he practically hurls himself at Victor, who drops his paper cup of coffee to catch the embrace. It happens in slow motion: Yuuri's arms encircle his neck, his shiny, perfect lips drawing closer and closer—then their mouths meet, and Yuuri gives him a lingering, platonic kiss, his eyes closing passionately with emotion.

About a million volts of electricity light Victor from head to toe. His thoughts fizzle out. He stands there frozen even after Yuuri pulls off, smiling shyly, still wearing the ridiculous pillow.

"I'm just so happy for you and Phichit-kun," he says, tearing up. "I always knew he'd marry, but the way he talks about you—you're his _world_ , Victor, and I couldn't ask for a better man to wed my best friend! I feel like I already know you!"

Victor wishes he could return the sentiment. Phichit speaks of Yuuri in glowing but nonspecific terms—'my homeboy cooks so-and-so better,' 'my bestie looks great in blue'—and it doesn't seem to be a function of jealousy or territoriality or anything but that special Phichit brand of bubbly absentmindedness. Victor's going to give him an earful when he gets home. How could Phichit have failed to mention how warm and _gorgeous_ Yuuri is?

"I—I'm still wearing my ridiculous neck pillow, aren't I," says Yuuri suddenly.

"Um," says Victor, grinning a little.

Yuuri swipes it off and whines, covering his reddening face. "Oh no!" he wails. "I wanted to make a perfect first impression!"

Victor laughs, picking up his empty coffee cup with one hand and relieving Yuuri of his suitcase with the other. "Trust me," he says, "you could not have made a better one. Katsuki Yuuri, welcome to the madness." 

*

Watching Phichit and Yuuri reunite is something miraculous. There is laughter. There are tears. There are hard slaps on the ass (on Phichit's part, anyway) and kisses and exclamations of, "You look so pretty!" "No, you!" "You!" before their attention inevitably turns to Victor, who is watching with an I-love-you-but-I-feel-out-of-place smile.

"I adore him, Phichit-kun," Yuuri breathes. He and Phichit are standing cheek-to-cheek and hip-to-hip, holding hands, and Victor thinks that it's the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. "He liked my poodle pillow!"

"As I should," says Victor. "I own one."

"A poodle pillow?" asks Phichit.

"A poodle."

"What? Where is it?"

"At my summer home."

"Oh," says Phichit. "You never told me that." He looks a little put-out, but he brightens quickly. He begins pulling Yuuri toward Victor's mansion. "Yuuri, come see what I've done so far! It's going to be a vintage wedding! I've got mason jars and teacup candles and iron birdcages and—"

"No," says Yuuri.

Phichit pauses. "No?"

"No," Yuuri repeats. He looks regretful, but his voice is firm: "I've been meaning to talk to you about this, Phichit-kun: this is why you're struggling. The last thing about you is 'vintage.' You are just about as mod as they come."

Phichit stares at him, realization dawning in his eyes. "Oh my god."

"Unconventional dishware and floral arrangements," says Yuuri, ticking things off his fingers. "Sleek lines. Abstract centerpieces and ghost chairs. Here, one sec, I researched it and printed out some literature—" he unfastens the chest strap on his backpack and pulls it in front of him, fishing in it briefly before turning up with a stack of papers that's at least an inch thick. "See, look. This head table uses crystal cuffs and silver-painted tree branches instead of flowers—"

"Sorry, Victor," says Phichit. "Wedding's off. I'm marrying Yuuri instead."

"Not if I marry him first," says Victor with wonder. These are some ideas he can actually get behind. He'd be fine if he never sees another burlap sack in his life. "How do we start?"

"First, throw everything you made out," Yuuri says.

Phichit points to the forested acre of land that serves at the Nikiforovs' backyard. "To the firepit!" he cries, and his purple aviators and cigarette materialize out of nowhere as he marches onward. Yuuri, flushed by his success, trails behind him, and Victor offers him an elbow, which he shyly takes.

"Katsuki Yuuri, I think I love you," Victor says—and ignores a soft, inexplicable pang in his chest when Yuuri smiles back.


	2. I Will Mark Which Must Be Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for the kind reception! I deeply appreciate your comments and kudos! Warning this chapter for Victor/Phichit sex, if it squicks you--it's not going to be terribly abundant in the full trajectory of this fic, but you knew it was coming.

It’s nice not waking up to a hysterically weeping fiancé. Instead, Victor rouses naturally, smiling sleepily into the blade of morning sun that’s peeking through the curtains. Phichit is standing in the center of the bedroom, stretching in green booty shorts, his running shoes, and his _I Beat Anorexia_ shirt. It's been a long time since he's gone for a run—the wedding planning has sapped him of energy—and Victor leers, eyeing the delicious slip of buttock that shows when Phichit bends over to touch his toes. He looks absolutely gorgeous, and he must feel Victor’s eyes on him, because he turns, grinning. “Why, good morning, Mr. Chulanont,” he says.

“Good morning, Mr. Nikiforov.” Victor holds out his arms.

"I need my exercise," Phichit whines, but he obediently climbs onto the bed and snuggles down against him, one hand shamelessly trailing down to fondle Victor's hard length through his pajama bottoms. "It looks like someone set an alarm cock for me," he teases, mouth hot at Victor's ear.

Victor shivers, folds one arm around the small of Phichit's back, and rolls on top of him. Phichit's breath leaves him in a happy little _oof_ , and he spreads his legs excitedly, his own arousal already announcing itself against Victor's hipbone. They kiss hungrily. They haven't enjoyed each other this way for several weeks, which is an eternity in Phichit-time—and probably an indicator that Victor should've called in the cavalry sooner. The cavalry being Katsuki Yuuri, who squeaks when he yawns and says 'lavatory' instead of 'bathroom' and falls asleep from jet lag standing completely upright.

They'd managed to get him into one of the guest rooms last evening, but just barely. He was out the moment his head hit the pillow, and Victor excused himself when Phichit began casually undressing him to get him into pajamas. He'd caught a glimpse of smooth, pretty thigh before he left, though, and still feels guilty about it.

He strokes Phichit's legs. Yuuri's would be paler, ampler. He wouldn't have the little freckle above the knee that Victor likes to kiss, but maybe there'd be other treasures—scars or birthmarks or even tattoos; Phichit has one on his hipbone, a cluster of golden flowers that trail sexily toward his navel—

"Clothes off," Phichit orders, high and breathy, and Victor nearly tears his own pajama top off in his eagerness to comply.

Once they've disrobed, Phichit pulls him back, kissing him messily. He's already got the lube out, and he's spreading it onto shaky fingers, impatient. It always arouses Victor deeply knowing that a beautiful young man like Phichit actually wants him, and it's all he can do to wait while Phichit preps himself, shuffling in the bedside table for a condom. He's just slipping it on when Phichit catches him by the back of the neck and flips him, the sheets billowing up around them as he straddles Victor's trembling hips. His fingernails rake Victor's chest, leaving raised pink columns. He kisses Victor hard, his tongue strong and young and urgent.

"I want you in me," he gasps, reaching back to give Victor one long, lingering stroke. "Can I—"

"Please," Victor manages.

Phichit guides Victor between his cheeks and seats himself with uncharacteristic gentility, eyes squeezed shut. He's hot, tight. His lips part soundlessly. Victor swallows thickly as he stares up at his lover, giving his own leg a hard pinch to stave off a premature orgasm. They’ve had problems with that in the past, and it's the fucking worst, watching Phichit pretend not to be disappointed as he finishes himself off alone with a sweet, understanding smile. Victor has taken to using medication on the nights when he knows Phichit will want to be amorous, always in secret, because the last thing he wants is to remind Phichit that he's getting up in years: twenty-eight isn't old, but their age difference is significant.

"Ready, baby?" Phichit asks. This is the hard part, no pun intended; this is where Victor makes it or breaks it, and he scrabbles to get a good grip on their headboard. His nails dig into the finish besides a hundred other half-moon marks from previous couplings.

"Ready," he says, and hopes he is.

Phichit beams at him, one hand rested gently at the junction of Victor's shoulder and neck, the other reaching back to tangle in his hair. "Hold on, honey," he says, almost smugly—and begins to ride Victor at his fast, brutal pace.

Victor squeezes his eyes shut. He sees stars. He's quiet during sex, but it's always a near thing, shouts caught in his throat. Phichit makes up for his lack of noise, of course. Gasps, sighs, moans, little yelps, murmurs of, "Victor, oh, _Victor_ " that have Victor grinding his teeth against climax. Phichit releases Victor's hair and braces both hands against the wall. His palms are slippery; Victor can hear them squeaking against the high-gloss paint that they picked out together last autumn. Dusky pink, like Phichit's nipples, like his mouth and the hot color that rises in his cheeks—

There is no denying that physicality is an enormous part of their relationship. Their sexual chemistry was inarguable, immediate; they'd first had sex in Victor's Maserati after their third date, and they haven't really cooled down since—except during this wedding chaos, of course.

 _Thank god for Yuuri_ , Victor thinks, groaning. Swooping in to save their sex lives, to liberate them from this premarital stress—arriving with his poodle pillow and helpless smile and sleepy, innocent charm—

Victor squirms, gasps, and ejaculates.

Fuck. _Fuck_. Coming back down is like stepping under a falling anvil, hard and instant. He goes stock still, mouth open, and Phichit bounces a few more times before coming to a halt in his lap, frowning thoughtfully as he detects Victor's softening member. Victor is fucking mortified. He groans, not in pleasure, and clasps both hands over his face, wishing he could sink into the barely-tousled sheets and disappear. 

"Phichit, darling—"

Phichit pulls his hands away and leans in to kiss him. He's smiling; Victor can feel it, and he lingers to playfully brush noses with him before pulling back with a short, patient sigh. His softening cock rests against Victor's belly, heavy and familiar.

"It's because I never give you time," he says, after a long moment.

Victor blinks. "What do you mean?"

"I—I'm selfish. I never—I don’t let you enjoy yourself; I just—" Phichit makes helpless gestures, and for the first time since they've known each other, Victor sees something dark in his eyes, terribly similar to self-loathing. "I just _take_ ," he finishes.

"No!" Victor exclaims, sitting up so fast that Phichit starts to topple backwards. Victor catches his delicious little hips and stabilizes him, one hand closing around his flaccid cock in an unconscious attempt to comfort. He strokes gently as he speaks: "It's not you. It's never been you, except in the sense that I can't control myself with you; you're so beautiful—

"You're sweet," says Phichit, pouting, "but—"

"No buts." Victor's chest tightens. It's the first time he's worked up the nerve to say it. "You're a young, healthy man, Phichit. I'm—I'm older than you. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is—"

"Are you quoting the Bible to me while you're holding my penis?"

"No, it's from Futurama."

"Victor," Phichit laughs. "Victor, Victor," and grabs Victor's hair in one tight fist, yanking him forward so he can trace the shell of his ear with his wet, certain tongue—

Katsuki Yuuri drowsily nudges the door open, takes three slow, shuffling steps with his head down, then opens his eyes and looks up.

He screams.

Phichit and Victor scream back. Victor instinctively flings Phichit away from him, and Phichit falls backwards off the bed, his legs going up over his head and everything. Drags most of the sheets with him, too, baring Victor in his full naked glory, his cock twitched subtly upward at Phichit's attentions. He flails for something to cover himself with, and instead of grabbing a pillow, he opts for the designer damask lampshade for some reason and knocks the box of condoms off the bedside table. Magnum Trojans speckle the air like confetti. Victor wants to fucking die.

Meanwhile, Yuuri has hurled himself to the carpet and is performing dogeza. "I'm sorry!" he's shouting. "I'm sorry, I thought this was the lavatory; I'm so sorry—"

"Get out!" Phichit yells at him.

"Gomen-nasai!" Yuuri wails, and shuffles backwards on all fours, dragging the door shut beside him.

Long, loaded silence. Victor pants for breath, and Phichit raises himself to his knees, squinting, his hair sticking up in every direction. They stare at each other. Victor slowly replaces the lampshade, not breaking eye contact.

Phichit bursts out laughing, and Victor wishes he could join him.

*

"So, that happened," is Phichit's icebreaker as he steps into the kitchen. 

Yuuri is crying in front of the coffeemaker, downing what must be his third or fourth cup, if the tremble in his hand is any indication. He bows deeply without turning around and smacks his face soundly on the countertop.

"Yuuri!" Phichit gasps, racing to his side.

"Sorry," says Yuuri. "Sorry." His nostrils begin to trickle blood.

Phichit coos and fusses as he fetches Yuuri a handful of paper towels, holding them against his nose as he sits him down on one of the bar stools. "Silly Yuuri," Phichit says, gently stroking his hair back from his forehead. "It's not like this is the first time you've walked in on me."

"The seventeenth time, actually," says Yuuri, muffled, "but the first time I've walked in on your fiancé. Please forgive me, Victor."

"Think nothing of it," says Victor, even though he can think of nothing else: his face flames at the memory of Yuuri's shocked face, and the condoms, and the fact that he fucking _threw_ Phichit onto the floor—he could not have made a worst impression on Yuuri's first full day in town. To busy his hands, he fetches a bag of peas from the freezer and sets them on the table for when Yuuri's nosebleed is under control. Yuuri nods gratefully, not looking at him. His dark eyes are moist with tears, but he's starting to smile a little below the wad of paper towels.

"I suppose the time I caught you reverse-cowgirling the pastor was slightly worse," Yuuri tells Phichit.

Phichit shushes Yuuri frantically, flushing, but Victor just laughs. They haven't really talked about Phichit's sexual history, owing to his deep embarrassment whenever the subject is broached, but it was obvious their first time that it wasn't his first rodeo. So to speak.

"It's really our fault for not giving you a tour of the house," says Victor, knowing full well that 'house' is a bit of an understatement: the Nikiforov's estate here consists of a modest six-thousand square feet, five bedrooms, two three-car garages, and a private gym. Statistically, it was surprising that Yuuri hadn't made it into one of the six bathrooms, but he'd been sleepy. He still looks a bit jetlagged as he sniffles, gingerly touching his nose and replacing the towels with the bag of peas. He finally meets Victor's gaze, and the eye contact sparks a little, startling Victor into saying, "Wow."

Yuuri and Phichit stare at him curiously. "Wow?" they repeat in unison.

"You have lovely eyes," says Victor honestly.

"He does, doesn't he?" Phichit agrees. "Too bad he doesn't take care of them, reading in the dark all the time."

"What do you read?" asks Victor eagerly. His unfinished dissertation was 'Fidelity and Homoeroticism in Twentieth-Century Literature.'

"Poetry, mostly," says Yuuri shyly. "Elizabeth Bishop. Keats. Neruda, because I like to pretend I'm bohemian. Edna St. Vincent Millay—"

"'I will be the gladdest thing under the sun!'" Victor exclaims, unable to help himself.

Yuuri's eyes widen, then he breaks into a beautiful, luminescent smile. "'I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one!'"

"'I will look at cliffs and clouds—'"

"'—with quiet eyes—'"

"'Watch the wind bow down the grass, and the grass rise.'"

They beam at each other. The kitchen is suddenly quiet in the wake of their outburst, but Victor is too delighted to feel embarrassed. Yuuri holds his gaze for a few moments before he looks down, still smiling, staring at the slowly defrosting bag of peas between his hands. There's a long, buzzing silence.

"'There once was a man named Sweeney,'" Phichit recites, "'who somehow spilled gin on his—'"

"Phichit," says Yuuri warningly.

Phichit subsides, grinning. "Finally Yuuri has someone to geek out with. How do you know poetry, Victor?"

Victor hesitates. He doesn't like admitting that he never got his PhD, even though Phichit's higher education ended with an associate's in fashion design. "Just a little hobby," he says, and it stabs at him a little, minimizing one of his passions that way. But it's nothing new. He replaces his books in the library after he reads them, keeps a lid on his quotes and literary opinions. It's not like he and Phichit have time to discuss the Aeneid between quickies in restaurant bathrooms. "I know how that limerick ends, by the way. Naughty boy."

"I'd ask you to punish me, but I think Yuuri's been traumatized enough today."

"Agreed," says Victor. He gives Yuuri one final, warm smile. "So, what's on the agenda today?"

"Well, since I never got my run in, I want to do something that involves a little physical activity," says Phichit. "What would you think about checking out some venues for the reception? Yuuri says he's got a list."

"Oh, I do!" Yuuri says, literally clenching both fists with excitement. Adorable. "It depends on what you want! Indoor, outdoor? Another garden? Do you know what type of food will be served; how many tables do you need?"

"God, the taaaables," Phichit groans.

"Lots," says Victor. "Like, thirty."

"Thirty!" Yuuri actually sways a little. "The magnitude of this wedding is terrifying."

"You're telling me," says Phichit.

"Well, that knocks out some of the smaller venues. That's good. I know a ranch or lodge seems rustic, but there are plenty of ways we can modernize the space once we know we have enough. There are also a few country clubs I'd like to look at."

Phichit kisses Yuuri gently on the lips, mindful of his nose. "God bless you, Yuuri," he says. He jogs in place a little, gesturing upstairs. "Okay, I'm going to wash up. Yuuri, feel free to use the shower too; there's like a billion water heaters in this place. Victor can actually show you where the bathroom is this time."

"That would be fantastic," says Yuuri, laughing. He stands up. He's wearing a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, so different from the silky pajama sets that Victor favors, or the teddies and animal onesies and nightshirts that Phichit alternates between, depending on his mood. It's lovely; a return to something simple. Yuuri stretches, revealing a few inches of soft, pale abdomen, and eyes Victor expectantly. "You'll guide me?"

"Of course!" 

Victor and Yuuri part ways from Phichit at the base of the stairs, Victor leaving him with a kiss and a promising little nibble on the lower lip. He peeks at Phichit's ass as he ascends, and Yuuri politely pretends not to notice, fiddling with the carved loops of the baluster as Victor gives himself a little shake.

"Sorry," he says, clearing his throat. "Onward."

He leads Yuuri to the best bathroom. He likes this one even better than the master; it has a whirlpool bath and an ivory-inlaid bureau and a blue-and-tan-tiled shower with four jets. _Wow_ , Yuuri mouths when they enter, and Victor feels an odd twinge of victory. For some reason he is desperate to impress his fiancé's best man.

He opens the linen closet, studies the stacks of towels, and plucks the deep sapphire set from the shelf. His hands brush Yuuri's when he presses them into his arms. "Here, you can use these, and you're welcome to any of the toiletries here," says Victor. "We like to keep well-stocked. Phichit's a fan of that strange lime basil shampoo, but I just use crushed pearl powder one—well, not _just_ ; it's somewhat indulgent but I love the shine it—um—paired with the kukui oil soap and—" he's babbling. He closes his mouth, chewing lightly on his tongue.

"Thank you, but I brought a lot of those little bottles that I've collected from hotels over the years," says Yuuri.

Victor is aghast. "Free—hotel—shampoo?"

"Some of them are quite nice."

"You do smell lovely; I'll give you that," says Victor without thinking.

Yuuri stares at him, blushing. "Th-thank you," he whispers. They stand in silence for a few too many beats. Then Yuuri says, softly and teasingly, "I'm so glad Phichit has you, Victor. I still think you're a gentleman, and I've seen your hand on his penis."

Victor flushes. "Y-yes, well. It is a very nice penis."

Yuuri smiles his radiant smile. "Yes," he says. "And I'll chop yours off if you hurt him. Pardon me—"

And he gently clicks the door shut in Victor's flabbergasted face.


End file.
